


Choices

by Raggedpelt



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen, Weirdmageddon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-03 22:15:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5309054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raggedpelt/pseuds/Raggedpelt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fic that follows Pacifica during the events of Weirdmageddon. My first multi-chapter Gravity Falls fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Weirdmageddon Day 1

**WEIRDMAGEDDON: DAY 1**

_If the world wasn't ending,_ Pacifica thought, _this would be really pretty._ Night had fallen on Gravity Falls, but light was still streaming in through the broken windows of the church. It cast everything in an unnatural mishmash of orange and vivid pink, and reflected off of the broken stained glass on the floor, sending showers of sparkles up the walls and along the ceiling.

Up near the altar, a few pews were shuffling around with wooden footsteps. There was a strange crunching noise from behind the altar, as if they were _eating_ something. Pacifica didn't have any desire to see _what_ they were eating.

It had been all she could manage to get her dad in the door, and he was still huddled up next to it. He couldn't close his lips over his one, giant, staring eye, but from how his breathing had slowed and become steady, she figured he had finally fallen asleep. As the hours had gone by, his eye had started to look really dry and painful, but she didn't know how to help him.

Outside, the cacophony of distant screams, crackling fire, and monstrous roars had almost faded into the background. Only one sound really stood out to her—the rustling of leathery wings. An eyebat had perched above the door to the church shortly after Bill had sent those creatures to eat Dipper, and it hadn't left that spot. It was like it KNEW the Northwests were there.

Pacifica wondered if Dipper had escaped. She'd heard the whole confrontation with Bill, but had been too scared to look out the window. From the sound of it, that old man he had been with had died—the one that Bill said opened the portal. She had overheard Dipper call him by name when they first came into the church, but she didn't remember it now. It's not like he had introduced him to the Northwests, or even seen them hiding. ...Maybe Bill knew there were still people in here. Maybe that's why the eyebat was lurking over the doorway.

Time passed. How much time was impossible to gauge. The clocks had stopped, and the light on floor didn't move. Every now and then, her dad shifted or whimpered. Every now and then, Pacifica would be convinced that the eyebat had probably left. Once, she had even gotten up and rested her palm against the church door to open it when she suddenly heard the leathery wings again and silently sat back down.

After a while, her eyes kept drifting to the broken stained glass window. Maybe it wasn't being watched. Dipper had climbed out of it hours before without a scratch, so she could probably manage it. The real question was whether or not her dad could. She looked over at what had been Preston Northwest, before Bill had scrambled him. His eye looked so dry and painful—it was a safe bet that he was blind now. When she led him to hide in the church, he had also had an incredibly difficult time staying on his feet. Maybe moving his ears had ruined his balance, too. He couldn't go out the window, and even if he managed it, he couldn't go far.

But Pacifica could get out. The more she caught herself looking at it, the more sure she was. She could escape. ...And maybe she could get help. Or food. She would come back for him later. After all, he was safe here, right? At least, safer than he would be out there. It was a good hiding place. He would be alright, and she wouldn't be gone very long. She might be back before he even realized she was missing. She eased to her feet, taking care not to wake him.

Pacifica crossed the sanctuary, climbed through the broken remains of the stained glass window, and made a frantic dash for the safety of the alley.


	2. Weirdmageddon Day 2

**WEIRDMAGEDDON: DAY 2**

Finding food turned out to be far more difficult than Pacifica could have ever anticipated. Most of the buildings were either picked clean, tightly barricaded, or infested with god knows what. A shrieking dustbin with fangs had chased her for three blocks before being devoured by a passing mini-van. She'd seen Tad Strange engaged in mortal combat with a garden hose. Even the mailboxes had turned carnivorous.

It was anyone's guess what time it was; the sun hadn't risen yet, and didn't show any intention of rising ever again. Not that it was dark. Between the hellish glow of the hole in the sky, and the eerie pink light coming off of a huge bubble-in-chains to the north, there was plenty to see by.

Pacifica found herself straying further from the town proper; the Eyebats were everywhere, as were the monsters. Plus, maybe if she got to where there weren't so many people, there would be food that hadn't been looted yet. She wandered down the winding road to the lake, and to her great surprise the general area seemed untouched. A rowboat was galloping around the docks on a set of horse-legs, but it seemed more confused than hostile.

She made her way over to the bait shop, but the going was slow. Bent nails, broken glass, and razor-sharp fish hooks littered the ground in a several-yard radius around the building, and they kept getting stuck in her shoes. What was puzzling was that there was so much junk and glass even though the windows themselves were unbroken and the structure itself looked fine.

Pacifica heaved a sigh of relief once she got past all the wreckage, only to immediately slip on the steps and bark her shin. For some stupid reason there was _flour_ scattered all over them. Weird. Weird and stupid. She picked herself up, dusted the flour off of her hands, and headed inside, leaving footprints behind her.

\--Only to immediately stumble again. Fortunately this time she caught her balance instead of faceplanting. It took her eyes several long moments to adjust to the dark before she could see what had tripped her up this time. A thin filament of fishing line was stretched across the doorway, almost invisible in the dim light.

A little perplexed, she turned her attention to the bait shop. It was dark and musty and smelled like fish guts, and all the mounted and shellacked trout on the wall certainly didn't do the ambiance any favors. Whoever decorated this place needed to get a clue—dead animals on the wall were gross, not classy. The floorboards creaked under her feet as she headed towards the back office, and she couldn't help but wonder how old this place was. Not nearly as old as Northwest Manor, of course, but probably more than old enough for the shoddy construction to show and the supports under the floorboards to rot away. She'd have to skip that step on her way back out just in case. God only knew how gross the floor UNDER the bait shop was.

Inside the office was a HUGE pile of food. Way more than she could eat. Most of it was that nasty canned stuff, but it would do in a pinch. Pacifica was so hungry that at this point she might even have considered eating at Applebees. She looked around quickly, and spotted a ratty old backpack sitting on the desk. That would work well enough for packing some of it with her, and she could just come back to restock later if she needed to. There was no way in hell that she was going to STAY in this creepy place (it was still settling; she could hear the floorboards creak in the next room. No way she was putting up with trying to sleep through that AND the apocalypse, thank you very much), but there was no reason she couldn't use it as her own private secret stash of food. With a grin, she started to load the cans of food into the backpack.

The hair on the back of Pacifica's neck stood on end an instant before the crowbar connected with her ribs. The blow dropped her and knocked the air out of her. Tate McGucket swung again, and she only barely managed to roll out of the way—the prongs on the end of the crowbar bit deep into the wooden floor. She scrambled to her feet and bolted, making it through the office door just as he pulled his weapon free.

The crowbar slammed hard into the counter behind her, then again into the wall above her head. Pacifica tripped again on the fishing line across the door, only this time it broke. As she fell down the front stairs of the bait shack, there was a deafening blast behind her and the smell of burning gunpowder. She didn't stop, didn't look back, just ran as hard and as fast as she could, powered by pure adrenaline.

She was almost back to main street when she realized she wasn't being chased. She sobbed for air, but each inhale brought fresh agony to where she had been hit by the crowbar—every breath felt like electrical shocks and bells ringing. The world swum, darkened at the edges, then faded out entirely.

 

******

 

The sound of approaching footsteps roused her, but she had no way of knowing how much time had passed. She couldn't remember where she was or how she had gotten there. Pain still shot through her at every breath, even though she was breathing so shallowly that her chest barely moved. Her foot throbbed as well, though that seemed distant and far away. She hadn't yet moved or opened her eyes when they got to her.

“Wh-who is that?” A woman's voice. One she didn't recognize.

“Pacifica Northwest, Deidre,” came the reply. That one was Bud Gleeful; Pacifica recognized it from the Tent of Telepathy's stupid commercials.

“Ask her if.. if she's seen him. Maybe... m-maybe she... does she know where he is?” A small, half-hysterical giggle, “A-ask her!”

“I think she's.. sleeping, dear,” Bud replied in a gentle tone, “We should keep moving. You go on up ahead and I'll be right there, sweet pea.”

There was a rustling, and Pacifica felt something lightweight being laid on top of her. A tarp, maybe? Whatever it was, Bud pulled it up and over her head, completely covering her. He and “Deidre”, whoever that was, left.

Under the tarp, Pacifica went back to sleep.


	3. Weirdmageddon Day 3

**WEIRDMAGEDDON: DAY 3**

 

When Pacifica reawakened, her head was throbbing and her throat felt like sandpaper. There was no way to know how long she had been out, but it felt like it had been hours and she was thirstier than she could ever remember being in her entire life. She was still desperately hungry, and her ribs still felt like electricity and ringing bells every time she inhaled, but somehow these problems seemed small and unimportant compared to how badly she needed water.

Standing up made her head swim, but after a moment it passed. She could handle being upright. Taking a step sent white-hot pain shooting up from her left foot, but she gritted her teeth and that passed, too. She took another step, and paused to let the pain subside again. By the tenth step, she didn't need to pause anymore.

Pacifica peered out the end of the alley, just in time to see Dipper hopping over a fence on the other side. She considered calling out to him, but with the Eyebats patrolling so heavily shouting would be suicide. He was only across the street, but he might as well have been on the moon. ...Standing at the edge of the alley in and of itself was dangerous, so she retreated further into the shadows.

At first Pacifica thought of going back to the lake for water, but immediately dismissed the idea and made her way through the twisted ruins of the suburbs instead. Many of the houses were burning, and all looked to be deserted, but she still couldn't muster the nerve to break in to one. Not after what had happened last time.

She had been wandering for about half an hour when she spotted the bird bath. It was old and hideous and painted bright tacky colors and in that moment it was the most beautiful thing Pacifica had ever seen. Full of fresh water, and at the perfect height to drink out of. She started to cross the yard toward it, but a sudden intense feeling of anxiety drove her back to the bushes. What if it was alive? What if it had been changed somehow by the weirdness? What if it was poisoned or a trap?

She sat with her back against the cheap vinyl siding of the crummy little house, and she waited. For what, she didn't know. Some sort of sign, maybe? Something to let her know it was safe? Pacifica needed the water badly, but couldn't bring herself to trust it. Time stretched on, but nothing changed.

Finally, she got her answer. A sparrow, apparently untouched by the oddpocalypse going on around it, landed on the rim of the bird bath and helped itself to a drink. Pacifica sighed in relief, and got to her feet. It was safe. She was half-way across the yard when it suddenly snapped it's jaws shut, killing the bird in a splat of blood and feathers. The birdbath chewed noisily, swallowed, then went back to looking like a piece of tacky yard décor.

The rest of the neighborhood wasn't much better. Every pool seemed to have some ominous shadow swimming in it, and every garden hose seemed to have fangs. In one yard she found a wheelbarrow with standing water in it, but it had a strange tint to it and smelled of onions and death, so she left it behind without drinking.

Eventually, Pacifica ran out of suburbs. By the time she found herself trudging up the concrete steps of Greasy's Diner, her head was pounding worse than ever and the world was starting to swim again. It was cool and dark inside, and smelled of butter and oil and bacon fat. Disgusting, but also so tempting in her famished state. She had walked halfway down the narrow diner before she realized she wasn't alone—someone was slumped in one of the nasty booths.

Her first impulse was to run, but then she realized he was asleep. It was Mr. Valentino, the guy who ran the funeral home. Pacifica remembered him from when her grandmother had died. He had been clean-shaven and neat as a pin then, but now he looked very scruffy—unshaven and in desperate need of a bath. One of his arms rested on the table, curled around a meat cleaver from the kitchen. She considered running again, but couldn't bring herself to do it. She was so thirsty, and she could probably get something from the sink or the fridge without waking him. She wouldn't take anything else. It would be fine.

The kitchen was beyond disgusting. There was a _raccoon_ sleeping in the dishwasher. A raccoon! She tried the light switch, but nothing happened—no power. She carefully tried the sink, and to her great relief the water was still working. Keeping it to a trickle, so it wouldn't make any noise to wake Mr. Valentino, she drank greedily. All her life Pacifica had only had the purest of filtered mountain spring waters, and not a drop of it had ever tasted half as good as this municipal water supply garbage-water did right now. It was heaven. She drank until her stomach hurt, then slowly turned of the tap.

Her head felt worlds better, though her ribs and foot still ached. Wondering why she hadn't thought to do so before, she sat down and looked at the bottom of her boot. One of the nails from the bait shop grounds had driven it's way right through the sole and into her foot. Bracing herself to keep from crying out, she gave the rusty bit of metal a sharp tug and pulled it free. There was blood on it.

Pacifica was at a loss. She had never learned first aid. Why bother when there was always some underling around who could do that for her? Should she ice it? That was a thing people did for injuries, right? Ice? She looked around, and spotted the walk-in freezer. The door was standing ajar, propped open with a small crate. Even with the power out, maybe there was still some ice left? It was worth a shot.

She limped over and peered inside. Most of the freezer was empty, but there were still a few unmarked boxes on a shelf near the back. She trudged to the back, and reached for one of them, only to have the box suddenly hiss and leap off the shelf, knocking her over. It scrabbled for a moment, it's little chicken-feet scratching uselessly on the scuffed metal floor, but then it got purchase and crashed out through the freezer door, knocking aside the crate that had been propping it open.

The door swung shut with a loud metallic CLANG, leaving her in total darkness.

Pacifica got to her feet and clawed at the door, trying to find the latch to let herself back out, but there didn't appear to be one on the inside.  _How could the freaking door not have a latch on the inside!?_ Weren't there LAWS against that sort of thing? Like, for workplace safety?

Through the door, she heard heavy footsteps approaching the freezer. They were slow and cautious, but she could tell from the start that they belonged to an adult. Her mind raced. It was too dark to see, but she tried to remember the freezer when it first came in. Was there anything she could use to defend herself?

Pacifica was still trying to remember when Mr. Valentino swung the door open, brandishing his cleaver. When he saw her, though, he looked genuinely surprised. “Pacifica? Are you alr-?”  
  
She didn't let him finish—just rushed him and squeezed between his leg and the counter in a mad dash for freedom. He grabbed the back of her jacket, but she slipped out of the sleeves like water, leaving him holding it as she fled out the door. She stumbled on the steps, but quickly regained her footing and took off down the road in a dead sprint.

Adrenaline held the pain at bay, but only for so long. By the time her sore foot and aching ribs forced her to stop, the diner was well out of sight. She tucked herself behind the overgrown hedge of some tacky tri-level house and waited, listening intently.

There was no sign of Mr. Valentino. She wasn't being chased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The freezer in this fic is actually based off of one at a camp I attended. The lack of an interior latch was soon discovered by campers, and shutting each other in the lodge's freezer became a favorite prank.
> 
> Kids are assholes sometimes.


	4. Weirdmageddon Day 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. I've recently started a new internship, and it's been eating up a lot of my time. This chapter hasn't actually been copy-edited, so I apologize in advance for any errors.

**WEIRDMAGEDDON: DAY 4**

 

When Pacifica first awoke, she had no idea where she was. Panic at the unknown clawed at her, and it took a few moments for the reality of the past few days to return to her. The world had ended, she was starving, and right now she was laying in the bushes in front of some nobody's house. The fallen needles from the hedge had made a soft enough bed, and the air through the evergreen branches had less of the sulfur sting to it that everywhere else seemed to have. It was almost... pleasant. Whatever had startled her awake seemed to have passed. She shut her eyes, trying to block out the world outside of her hidden little nest. For now, this was a semi-safe place.

_You should stay here until it blows over._ The thought came unbidden, following the sweet scent of evergreen.  _Why not just hide? Why not wait? You don't even have to move. Just stay here. Be still. Stay here._

She couldn't even smell the sulfur anymore, just the fragrant branches. It was soothing, almost. She opened her eyes, but the lids were so heavy... it was easier just to shut them again.  _Just stay. Just hide. Just sleep. You're safe here. Just sleep._ It seemed like a good idea. The past few days had been so hard, but right now they felt very far away. Almost like they had just been a bad dream she would wake up from soon. Why participate in the nightmare when she could just wait for it to end? Besides, her ribs still ached. Her foot- ...Her foot didn't hurt anymore.

 

In fact, she couldn't feel her feet at all.

 

That realization shocked Pacifica from her sleepy twilight into wide-eyed terror. She squirmed, realizing that the hedge had wrapped itself around her ankles, soft needles gripping her firmly. She looked down, and saw one evergreen tendril slowly curling it's way around her leg, tightening it's hold. She kicked, but her movements were clumsy and awkward; her coordination a victim of the haze that seemed to have fallen over her.

Her panicked flailing seemed to only tighten it's grip, but after kicking again and again in pure, animal terror, she tore herself free. Staggering and stumbling, Pacifica escaped from the sweet-smelling hedge and back into the sulfer-tainted air of Weirdmageddon. Panting to catcher her breath, she looked back at the slender, evergreen limbs. They were constricting tightly around the shoes and socks she had left behind.

She got to her feet, took three wobbly steps, then ate dirt. Grateful that nobody had seen her trip over literally nothing, Pacifica picked herself up and continued, but her numbed legs made travel a difficult prospect. Still, putting one foot in front of the other was as good a thing to focus on as any. With time, the numbness faded, and when the pain returned her coordination returned with it.

The water from the diner had made a world of difference, but four days of no food was starting to wear on her. ...Sprott Farm could be a possibility, but then again everyone else might have thought of that, too. She could try breaking into houses, but that ran the risk of encountering more angry homeowners, and the LAST thing she wanted was to get between another adult and their hoard. She had no plan, so she just... walked.

She drifted back towards down town. It was quiet now. No screaming citizens, no eyebats, just empty streets. There was distant bass from the Fearamid, but it was something more felt than heard—a pulsing hum in the air. Pacifica thought she might truly be the last one left when she heard the creaking of an old wooden door. Further down the street, maybe three doors away, someone was coming out of the old church. She quickly ducked into an alleyway to hide from sight, hugging her knees to appear smaller.

Footsteps approached. Heavy ones, with a hint of a limp to them. Whoever it was had seen her and was closing in. The other end of the alleyway was sealed off by a chain link fence, there would be no escape there. Likewise, darting from the alley across the street was a bad plan—too much ground to cover, and no guarantee of safety on the other side. No running away this time, and the footsteps were almost upon her.

On the ground nearby, next to one of the trash cans, was a length of metal pipe—about a foot long and an inch in diameter. Silently, she picked it up. It felt heavy and awkward in her hand, but she was pretty sure she could swing it. It was better than nothing.

The footsteps reached her, only to continue without pausing. It was Mr. Pines, and he hadn't seen her; he was too busy stuffing something into his pocket. Without looking, he tossed something over his shoulder into her alleyway and kept on his way.

The discarded item landed at her feet. It was her dad's money clip. Fine ivory, engraved with the initials “P.N.” She wished she still had a pocket to store it in, but her jacket had been lost when she escaped Mr. Valentino.

She left it lying where it had landed, and continued on her way.

 

*****

 

Several hours later, Pacifica had walked in a large circle through the city and still found nothing to eat. Strangely enough, she didn't even feel hungry anymore. She was thirsty again, but it wasn't an emergency yet. The throbbing of her ribs and foot were still there, but... unimportant, somehow. Even the bite of the concrete on her unprotected soles didn't bother her anymore. She sat down in the same alleyway, her eyes resting once again on the ivory money-clip.

There was no food. She had even broken into some buildings again, only to find the food gone. Or worse, alive. ...There might be something left to scavenge back at Northwest Manor, but she didn't know the way home. She had never needed to. Her driver had always attended to that for her. Everything had always been done for her.

The more she thought about it, the angrier she was. This was their fault, all of them. Why had they done that? Why had nobody taught her anything _useful?_ Everyone knew this town was screwed up, even before the world ended. Hooded figures in the dog park, gnomes in the woods, the off-limits part of the graveyard, HUGE hoofprints at the edge of the park, the runes that seemed to be scratched into the foundations of every big public building... everyone knew this town was crazy, but nobody had cared to teach her anything. If they had given a damn, she wouldn't be doing so badly.

Pacifica was so busy stewing that she didn't hear the soft paws on the asphalt until it was too late to run. Maybe it had originally been a dog. Maybe it had originally been a lawn chair. Maybe it had never been either. Regardless of how it had come to be, the creature had blocked off her only escape. She screamed and ran, but was stopped almost immediately by the chain link at the other end of the alleyway.

A glance over her shoulder revealed that the amalgam was tensing it's legs to spring. Pacifica shut her eyes tightly, bracing herself, waiting for an attack that never landed. There was the sound of wood striking wood, gutteral snarling, and Mr. Pines cursing like a fiend. When she opened her eyes again, he was standing over the splintered remains of the creature, huffing and puffing to regain his breath, a broken bat in one hand and brass knuckles on the other.

“Ugh, everything hurts. ...You okay, kiddo?” he said.

“I'm fine,” she replied, keeping her voice as steady as she could, “And I'm NOT out here alone, so you'd better keep your distance!” The lie was automatic, one of the few things her parents HAD bothered to teach her as a safeguard against kidnapping.

“Oh?” Mr. Pines replied

“Yes,” she replied in her most superior tone, “My parents are scouting ahead, and they'll be _right back._ Any minute now, in fact, and they wouldn't be happy to see _your_ sort talking to me.”

Mr. Pines had the gall, the  _nerve,_ to give her a look of pity. He dug around in the pocket of his jacket for a moment, retrieved a small, foil-wrapped package of some sort, then kneeled down to offer it to her. “Here. Poptarts. You look hungry.”

She didn't know what poptarts were, but the idea that they might be food made her mouth water. “I'm not allowed to take handouts.”

The old man considered this for a moment, then stood back up, and dusted himself off. “Well, in that case, I'm just going to leave this here with you so you can ask your parents if you're allowed to have it when they get back, okay?”

“O-okay,” Pacifica replied, hating the waver in her voice.

“Have you seen any of my family,” he asked, a small hopeful look in his eyes.

“No, I haven't,” she replied, only realizing after she had said it that it was a lie. Still, that one glimpse of Dipper didn't mean much. He could be anywhere by now.

Mr. Pines walked to the end of the alley, then turned and looked back at her. “I was on my way home, but I just realized I forgot something back the other way. I'll be back in, say, ten minutes. If your 'parents' aren't back by then, you're welcome to come with me back to the Mystery Shack. We have food, shelter, weapons, and we're on well water so the faucets still work. I'll be back in a bit.” Without waiting for her reply, he turned and walked off.

The instant he was out of sight, Pacifica dove for the little foil packet, quickly tearing it open. Nothing in the world had ever tasted half as good as “Poptarts” did. They were soft and sweet and before she knew it she was licking the last of the crumbs from her fingertips. The little pastries had taken the edge off, but she was still hungry.

Now was her chance to slip away. She could easily run away and hide before he got back, but... what if it wasn't a trap? He could have easily attacked her just then, but he chose not to. He didn't have to fight the monster, but he still did. He didn't have to share any food, but he still had. Maybe Mr. Pines wasn't lying. Maybe the Mystery Shack _was_ safe.

Pacifica stared at the crumpled wrapper in her hand for a long time, then sat down and waited for Stan to return.


End file.
